


Five times Jeremy Heere did something stupid and one time he almost did

by empressoffire



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Ableist Language, Bisexual Jeremy Heere, Graphic Self Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, all the self harm warnings, the author is working out some shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-01-08 19:12:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12260397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empressoffire/pseuds/empressoffire
Summary: Or, a multi-year journey through Jeremy Heere's self-harm issues.





	1. Chapter 1

So it starts like this, sort of. It starts because Peter (Peter B. not Peter C.) took off his shirt in gym class and it made Jeremy's stomach do this weird thing where it heated up a whole lot. And that’s weird and confusing, not just by itself but also because Jeremy knows that hot stomach feeling, and it’s the same one he gets when Natasha (R. but she’s the only Natasha so it doesn’t really matter) wears that really tight red shirt. Which, why would both make him feel like that? 

It leads to some covert googling, which leads to, well. It leads to pornhub mostly, but it also leads to him binge watching this stupid teen drama because there’s this character in it called John and he likes boys and girls (he calls himself bi, once, and then spends the rest of the series claiming he doesn’t like labels). John is a jerk and Jeremy doesn’t want to be like him, and shoves that part way down inside, alongside the way he feels when he watches Michael out of the corner of his eye. 

The thing is, in one episode of the show, after the lead girl has a fight with the lead guy, over prom tickets or something like that, she locks herself in the bathroom, sobbing. She goes to the sink, opening the cupboard, pulling out a small black box, he remembers, palms sweaty. She pulled out a razor blade, the kind he later figures out is called a straight razor, the kind with the blade on both ends and the weird little cutout in the middle. And then, and then, she’d dragged the blade down her arm. The caramea had lingered on the marks, ruby red against her pale skin, and Jeremy had slammed his laptop shut with such force he was afraid he’d broken it.

The image had stayed in his mind, had lingered for days, weeks, after. He’d known about cutting, of course, in the general way you a person might know about shooting heroin, in that it was very very bad and people who did it where sick and needed help, and you should never ever do it. But to see it like that, just, spread out and done, was something different. Somehow. 

But he didn’t act on it. He didn’t and he never would, because no matter how often it popped into his head, or stayed on the back of his eyelids, that was a line he could not, would not cross, because it was the difference between having some issues and being a complete hopeless psycho. 

Until

Until one day, when he failed that stupid math test, and Michael was annoyed at him because he’d broken his headphones, and his parents were fighting, screeching at each other, and it was so much, too much. And he hadn’t been planning on it, he’d just, he’d just seen his mother’s razor, sitting on the side of the bathtub, and he’d grabbed it, taking it back to his room and placing it on his desk. That night he’d just stared at it, like he could burn through the plastic handle with his eyes alone. 

He didn’t use it that night. Only partially because he couldn’t figure out how to get the stupid blades out of the protective case, and there was something deeply uncool about cutting yourself for the first time with your mother’s bright pink Lady Venus razor.  
He used it three weeks later, when nothing had really gone wrong, which was so typical of him, overreacting over nothing. But he’d felt off, and he’d felt sad, all day, and it had culminated here, in his bedroom, staring at the razor he hadn’t managed to return back to the bathroom, and then he was grabbing it, rolling up his sleeves and slashing down. 

It wasn’t pretty. It was barely anything, to be honest. It was barely bleeding, barely the size of the fingernail on his pinky, but it was there. It existed, and it was there, and he’d done it. He’d crossed that line. It was done, and there was no turning back. 

Jeremy stared at the small mark, at it’s redness, looked between it, and the razor still clenched tightly in one fist. He let out one shuddering breath, then another. He raised the blade again.


	2. Chapter 2

It becomes sort of an almost habit, which is to say he keeps doing it, but not very often. Maybe once every month or so, just when his head gets loud. That means it’s not so bad. Real cutters, real people with issues would be doing it every night. He doesn’t tell anyone about it, not even Michael. 

Which was maybe the problem. Because one day Michael comes into class with long sleeves and he doesn’t think anything of it, because it’s March but then it gets warmer and the long sleeves don’t go away. And Jeremy thinks he knows what’s going on, knows with a kind of sick certainty. He wonders, briefly, if this feeling that clutches at his heart is similar to the feeling closeted gay people get when they meet in public. 

He does not know how to handle this. So he doesn’t bring it up. 

Until one day Michael goes to the bathroom at school, and he can’t explain it, but he has that sick feeling inside, clawing at his ribs, and he tells the teacher it’s an emergency and takes off after him, even though she calls at his back for him to get back here right now! 

He finds Michael in the bathroom, in the disabled stall, just standing in the corner. He knows it’s him because he knows Michael’s converses, red with song lyrics on them like he knows the back of his hand, like he knows everything about Michael. He pounds on the door, once, twice, and Michael opens it, and one sleeve is rolled up, and he’s got a pen knife in one hand, the blade tinted red and Jeremy cannot breathe. 

Michael grabs him, hauls him into the stall, whispering that Jeremy should be quiet, calm down, it’s not as bad as it looks, he’s okay he swears, while tears, fat and salty run down Jeremy’s face. 

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. He grabs some toilet paper and presses it to the cuts on Michael’s arm, while his face does a tears and snot impression of Niagara Falls. “How long?” He asks, voice wavering. 

A couple of months, is the answer, and his heart goes cold. It’s stupid, it is because he does the same thing and if the positions were reversed he knows Michael would be just as upset, maybe more. 

But he’s Jeremy Heere, stupid stutterer loserhomofreak and he knows he deserves it. Michael, sweet Michael, who had come out to Jeremy in his basement, who says that one day they will get matching pacman tattoos, who stays up late texting him when his parents fight, does not. So Jeremy wraps Michael’s arms up, takes the pen knife from his shaking fingers, and promises they’ll talk about it later.

They do, sitting in Michael’s basement, on their beanbags. Michael talks in a quiet voice, taking breaks when it becomes too much, about his fears and the dark cloud that hangs over him, about how the words thrown at them in the halls get too much sometimes. He talks and talks, unburdening himself. Jeremy nods, and holds Michael close, like he can crush these feelings under his stick like arms. He strokes Michael's hair, wipes his eyes and does not say a word about the marks that litter his arms. How can he, without sounding like a hypocrite? 

He deserves it, he does, but there’s no way to tell Michael that. For some reason or another, Michael loves him. This is a fact, a barrier he cannot overcome anymore than he can overcome the fact that he is this giant black hole, taking all the good in the world and smothering it. He cannot make Michael understand how his badness is written on the inside of his bones. So he stays quiet, presses a kiss to Michael’s forehead, and doesn’t mention how he gets it, how deeply he understands how it feels to have poison flow through your veins, how it clouds your vision until you can’t think anymore, can’t focus on school or work, and the only clear thought in your head that remains is that this is your fault, all your fault, for being so stupid and weak. So he doesn’t say any of that, just holds him like he’s made of glass and Michael will shatter if he lets go.

“I’m not going to ask you to stop.” Jeremy says, carefully, when Michael is done, reduced to quiet hiccups. “Because I don’t think it will work, and it won’t fix anything, anyway. But please, talk to someone.” He’s not sure who. The guidance counselor at school? She’ll call and tell his parents. Getting a private therapist is out of the question, because how are a couple of middle schoolers supposed to pay for one? 

In the end, they settle for bookmarking several links on Michael’s computer, a couple of those government websites where adults use words like “totes” and make it deeply uncomfortable for everyone, and a few of those tumblr lists of ways to cope. Those are more useful. It’s not always going to work, and Jeremy makes Michael swear on his copy of Wind Waker that he will call if the urge gets too strong. 

That night, Jeremy goes home, disassembles his mother’s bright pink Lady Venus razor he’s still using because he’s just the worst, and rips his arms to fucking shreds. He covers his arms in bandages, after, not because he’s afraid someone will see the cuts but because he’s afraid he’ll get blood on his cool skull sheets and ruin them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so first of all, i wanted to thank people for the comments (and kudos!). this was really scary for me to post, as i said last time, and seeing the warm responses meant just a hell of a lot to me, just so much you guys have no idea. 
> 
> second, this thing is mostly(?) written so now it's a matter of editing and posting. and ending it. dear god am i shit at endings.


	3. Chapter 3

The thing is, he’s not very good at cutting himself. He’s using a dull blade, his hands always shake. The lines are small, and though they do bleed, it’s nothing like the dramatic rivers of blood that always happen whenever anyone gets injured on tv. So, he convinces himself it’s not that bad. Or maybe it’s worse. 

Because what kind of monster is he? That he’s doing this, that he hurts himself but doesn’t even do it right. It’s this, partly, that makes him keep it close to his chest. Because what right does he have to take up the time of a professional who’s just trying to help people with real issues, people like Michael and his pen knife when all he’s got is a shitty bent blade. 

He thinks about getting better blades, sometimes, of heading to Walgreens and buying a box of straight razors. But it’s one of those lines he won’t cross, as stupid as that sounds. He’s already a cutter (the word sends shivers down his spine), so any line at this point seems, well, pointless. 

It’s funny, the lines he’s drawn for himself. One of them is that he won’t carve anything, because that seems like such a stupid emo teenager thing to do. He thinks about it from time to time, about how it would look, LOSER in all caps, bright ruby red. It would be beautiful. 

Another rule he has is that no one will lead him to cut. No one will have that power over him. This line gets tested when his mother leaves. 

He sits on his bed in his boxers, because he’s figured out that if he cuts his arms often enough, someone will probably notice. Eventually. He sits on his bed in his boxers, holding his blade, hovering above the soft flesh of his thigh. He’s not going to do it. He will not cross that line. He won’t, even though it’s his fault she left because he’s such a fucking awful son, a black hole, a stupid idiotloserfreak who can’t handle the world’s problems without cutting himself and he can’t even do that right! 

No one is ever going to love him. 

He knows this. He knows this and he’s shaking and he puts the blade down because he’s a stupid moron loser freak. He grabs his phone, hitting the buttons without looking. He doesn’t need to. 

“Hey.” Micheal says, calm and cool. There’s video game sounds in the background, but he can’t focus. “What’s up?”

“She left.” He pulls the words out like he’s pulling his own teeth. “Mom left.” 

“Oh my god.” Michael breathes, and there’s something oddly comforting in his horror. Maybe because it’s what he expects, maybe because it proves he cares. “I’m coming over.” 

He doesn’t need to let Michael in. The door is unlocked, and even if it wasn’t, Michael knows where they hide the key in the garden, under the rock. Jeremy barely remembers to shove the plastic bag he’s using to store the razors under his bed before he busts in. 

Michael grabs him, holds him close as Jeremy's body is racked with sobs. He presses his face into Michael’s neck, smelling the familiar scent of laundry detergent, sugar, and the faint trace of weed, and for the first time in a long time, he feels a little bit okay. His wrists itch, so he buries his head deeper, holds him closer. 

He cuts the next day anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

The Squip doesn’t like it when he cuts. The Squip doesn’t like most things he does. It says that this a weakness, something deeply unchill. Since Jeremy's always been a sporadic cutter, it doesn’t come up much, and for that he is thankful. 

After Halloween though, 

He wants to cut. He needs to do it to quiet the screaming in his head, the knowledge that he fucked up and he hurt Michael and this is all his fault. And Brooke. He hasn’t even really thought about what he’s done to Brooke, and oh god. 

He frantically searches through his bottom drawer, throwing clothes he hasn’t worn in weeks to the side. The Squip hovers, just out of the corner of his eye. It doesn’t speak, just watches. He grabs the plastic bag, tears it open. The blades are so dull now, but he never replaces them. He holds it in his hand, brings it down and electricity flows up his spine. 

He drops the blade, shaking. “What are you doing?” The Squip asks, but of course, it’s rhetorical because it lives in his brain. 

Jeremy lets out a half sob, pressing a hand to his mouth. Don’t, don’t, he thinks. Leave me this. “Actually,” The Squip drawls, considering. “Maybe you should.” His head snaps towards it, so fast he can feel his brain squish against the sides of his skull. “If you did, you could show Brooke the marks. It might go a long way to fixing things with her.”

The horror rises in him like a zombie crawling out of the grave. No, no, no no no nonono. He cannot tell Brooke about this, about this private part of himself that he has hidden from everyone, even Michael, even Michael who matters most and-  
Not anymore.

Oh god.

“On the other hand, it could deeply freak her out. That wouldn’t be helpful at all.” The Squip seems to think. “No, let’s not.”

It makes Jeremy cleanup everything, the strips of plastic that had fallen to the ground in his rush to get at the blades, the clothing tossed aside. Then it makes him get undressed, put his pajamas on, crawl into bed.

He lays there, in the dark and thinks. The thoughts, the things he’s done collide and swarm in his brain, chasing out all other thought, until there is nothing left but the guilt and the burning in his wrists. He has to do something. He has to let it out and he’s not aware he’s punching the wall until he’s actually doing it. 

Pain shoots up his wrist, and there’s room to breathe again, just a small space carved out from the noise. He does it again, and again, and again, until his knuckles are split in two and he can feel the reassuring weight of warm blood on his fingers. 

The electricity snakes up his spine again. “Jeremy.” The Squip snaps, popping back into his vision. “I said, we’re not doing that. Stop it right this instant.” 

He nods, sinking back down into his sheets. “Okay.” He breathes, out loud even though he knows he doesn’t need to. “Okay.” It’s fine. He’s fine again. Cool and chill, right? Just be fine and cool and chill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so last chapter and this one are the ones im most nervous about. partly because is jeremy in character? is anyone? i have no clue. and partly because as someone who progressed from hitting myself to cutting this is just kind of uncomfortable for me. maybe because it's not seen as "real" sh? i have no idea. anyway, it's done and it's out. 
> 
> again, because i cannot say this enough, thank you so much for the kudos and comments. it means the world to me and i cannot say how thankful i am.


	5. Chapter 5

It goes without saying, of course, that he cuts himself to pieces once the Squip is gone. The cuts are worse now, and they happen more regularly. It’s no big deal. 

He’s even got some good proper blades, nice and sharp, fresh from the box and not ripped from a plastic razor. They were like five bucks at walgreens. He spends nights scrolling amazon, looking at the scalpels and other sharp things. He has next to no money, but these are so cheap. He wonders what they could do, imagines how they could rip his flesh apart with just a flick of the wrist. 

He never orders any, though. He’s weak like that. 

Michael forgives him. That’s an actual thing that happens, Michael forgives him. Michael forgives him and they still hang out but now also they hang out with Rich and Christine and Jake and Chloe and even Brooke? What the shit.   
And even his relationship with his dad is better? His dad wears pants now. It’s actually kind of nice. 

His dad is also trying to take an active role in his life now, which is what leads him to knock on Jeremy’s door, while he’s sitting in his boxers and a t shirt. 

His thighs are ruined, a constant criss cross of lines covering them, like he shredded them with barbed wire. It actually hurts to wear pants, and he knows he winces sometimes when demin brushes against a healing one, knows Michael frowns that one frown, with his brows furrowed, the one Jeremy had missed so fiercely. 

“Son?” He hears, and he manages to pull his comforter up, across his legs before the door swings open. 

“Hey, dad.” 

Jeremy’s dad enters the room. “Can I come in?” And when he gets a nod, comes and sits beside him on the bed. “So, son. I was thinking…” He says, then trails off. “I’m worried about you.” 

Jeremy’s fists clench and unclench the comforter. “Why?” 

“Well. You’ve been acting strange. Ever since before the hospital, actually. But lately, I don’t know. I’ve been trying to be more open, talk more, with you. It still feels like you’re holding back.” 

Jeremy does not know how to respond to this. He watches himself make fists in the comforter and thinks about all the things he cannot say, about how Michael makes him feel like there’s a fire in his belly, low and warm, about the blood that stains his pants, how this situation came to be, how he got so desperate for love and affection and approval he was willing to spend six hundred dollars on an evil wintergreen tic tac. But it has been so long, and the words have turned into cement, walling his mouth shut. He couldn’t, even if he wanted too. 

“I’m fine dad.” And the words sound weak, even to him, but they are all he can offer up. 

His dad looks at him for a moment, then stands with a defeated shrug. “Okay, Jeremy.” He says softly. “Okay.” 

Later that night, he wanders into the bathroom to find his dad staring at the garbage can, a look of horror in his eyes. “Dad?” And when he joins his father, can see the bloody tissues inside, he freezes. “Oh, haha. That must look pretty bad, huh? I had a nosebleed.” 

“A nosebleed.” His dad repeats, then places one heavy hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. 

“Yep, a nosebleed.” His dad only stares at him, empty eyed as he leaves.


	6. Chapter 6

“Your dad thinks you’re cutting yourself.” Michael says, and he freezes, still as a statue on the beaten red beanbag in Michael’s basement, still holding a bottle of Crystal Pepsi. 

“I told him he must be mistaken. Because there’s no way you’re cutting yourself. Not without telling me, not after freaking out on me in grade eight over doing the exact same damn thing. I told him you wouldn’t be keeping secrets from me, especially not a secret like this.” Michael turns to look at him, eyes wide and hurting. Tell me I’m right, they say and he remains frozen, trapped by the things he cannot say. 

Instead, he gets up and what moves him he cannot say. He gets up, and goes over to Michael, and hands him the razor he keeps in his pocket, because he’s the kind of person who does things like that now. 

Michael swears, and it takes a while and it’s only mostly in English, and when he is done he grabs Jeremy by his shoulders, shaking him gently. Why, he needs to ask, why. But he doesn’t, he just breathes heavily until he finally speaks. “How long?” 

He takes a step back, and Micheal follows, keeping them only a breath apart. “How long?” He repeats, desperate. 

Something breaks in him, and he falls forward with a small gasp. Michael catches him, because of course he does. The words crawl out of his mouth like a broken man crawls towards freedom. “Seventh grade.” Michael goes pale, tears springing to his eyes and Jeremy cannot do this to him again, so he speaks. “Off and on. It’s never been a constant thing, don’t worry. And the Squip made me stop, for a while.” 

Michael doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to, because Jeremy can read his face just fine. Why and hurt spill over it, and Jeremy is desperate to stop it, like a drowning man trying to get to shore. “I wanted to tell you.” And the words are so small. “I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t. There are so many things I can’t tell you.” 

“Like what?” Michael breathes.

They are so close together, only inches apart, and Jeremy can feel Michael's breath on his face. He moves without thinking, getting closer until he can see himself reflected in Michael's eyes, and then further, taking the plunge as he presses their lips together, in a move he has wanted to take since he was twelve but did not realize it until he was sixteen. 

He steps away, after, because he’s just realized what a stupid mistake this all is. He steps away and keeps going, to his bag, hauling it up onto his shoulders and thanking every god he’s ever heard of that he’s got more razor blades stashed under his bed. He will go home, and he will fix this the only way he knows how, and like always, it won’t work. 

“Jeremy.” Michael says, and the tears in his eyes are still there. “Jeremy, did you just kiss me?” 

“Yes.” He answers, ducking his head. “I did.”

“And what are you going to do now?” 

He glances at the door, thinks about not answering but fuck it he’s already letting everything out and he cannot stop it now. “I’m going to go home, and I’m going to cut. I’m probably going to cut a lot, because I’ve fucked this up like I’ve fucked everything else up.” He moves towards the door and Michael is there, holding out one hand.

“You kissed me. Why?” Michael stares at him, tears in his eyes, so still and so fucking beautiful, and he asks “Why?” again, in his sweet voice, and Jeremy is done with lying to Michael. 

“Because I wanted to.” He says, words like a freight train. “Because I’ve wanted to for so long, years, and I could never tell you. There are all these things I can’t say, and I, and I-” He’s not sure where he’s going with this. 

Michael reaches out, softly tracing the line of his jaw, curling his hand under it. “You can say anything to me.”

“I know.” And he does, but doesn’t. “Michael.” He says into the silence. “Michael.” 

“Yes?” It’s soft and hesitant. 

“I’m not good with things. With emotions, and people.” Michael opens his mouth to protest and he cuts him off. “I’m not, and I never have been. I don’t, I’m not.” He pauses. “Can we sit down?” And they do, on their beanbags and when he holds his hand out Michael takes it. He takes a deep breath, and lets the words spill out of his mouth like a waterfall of blood. “I cut myself. I’m a cutter.” The brand burns, and Michael is there, holding his hand like a lifeline. “I love you. I’ve been in love with you since I was 12.” 

Michael takes him into his arms. “I’m sorry.” Jeremy says, and it isn’t enough. 

“It’s okay.” Michael mummers into his hair. “It’s alright. I love you. I love you.” On some level, Jeremy thinks he already knew, but it settles into his chest with a warm feeling all the same. They sit there for a bit, breathing in sync. “Can I have the blade?” Michael asks, and Jeremy presses into the palm of his hand. Their eyes meet, hands pressed together, and it’s not the end, but the beginning of the end, and it begins like this, with Michael leaning down to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is the end of this super fun journey through my mental health i made a bunch of strangers on the internet take with me. first of all, i'd like to thank everyone so much for the kind words and the kudos and everything. i've said this before but this was really scary for me to post and everyone was so nice, i had people telling me about their experiences with sh and sharing coping methods and it kind of blew my mind, to be honest with you. if any of you ever need a kidney hit me up. second, im hoping this is my last work in this fandom, so if anyone wanted to throw some prompts at me feel free? i cant promise ill write them but... yeah. third, this is a small thing but ive actually been clean from sh since posting this and it feels p good. and last but not least, thank you again so so much for anyone who read this at all. it means the world to me.

**Author's Note:**

> ohhhkay, so this is nerve-wracking for me, for about eight different reasons. the least of which is not that Jeremy's sh travels are basically my own. i'm going through kind of a rough time mentally right now and instead of relapsing, i'm going to write this. is this a smarter move? i have no idea but i'm still not telling my therapist about it. 
> 
> if anyone has anything to say about this, if it made anyone uncomfortable please tell me. i'm still not sure posting it was the best idea but it felt better than hoarding it, i guess.


End file.
